


Threnodies

by EnricoDandolo



Series: Bethquisitor oneshots [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Andrastianism does not work that way, Bethquisitor, Confessions, F/F, On the Run, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3302675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharp steps around her. Hot breath by her ear. A scathing voice in a heavy Nevarran accent.<br/>“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now, Bethany Hawke …”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnodies

_Enchanters!_

_A time has come for battle lines._

_We will cut these knotted ties,_

_And some may live and some may die._

 

 

As she wolfs down the dinner she can’t actually afford, she watches the quartet of apostates talking in hushed whispers at the table in the corner: a woman and three men, one of them an elf, all of them younger than her. They are trying, she tells herself, trying very painfully not to look like rebel mages who have never in their lives stepped a foot outside a Circle. They’re going through the motions as if they had read about them in books, which is in fact quite probable. Boisterously greet the tavern’s denizens (jolly good evening my good mates, by crikey!), order water with a side of cholera (because most Circles don’t serve beer or ale, and the water is purified), loudly toast to the Templar Order (because that’s what mage-hating peasant rubble does, right?) …

If it wasn’t so sad, it might have been comical.

She returns her attention to her plate. It feels like she hasn’t eaten since leaving Highever, but she knows that’s nonsense. She’d bought half a loaf of bread in some village on the way the other day, right? Doesn’t matter. So long as the other mages draw the villagers’ attention away from her, she’ll be fine.

So she tells herself. The innkeeper sidles over to her, polishing a mug, because that’s what innkeepers in this kind of inn do when there’s nothing better to do. “Picked a bad day to come here, miss,” he quietly tells her. “That lot’s trouble. Apostates, you ask me.” He pronounces the word like others might pronounce the name of the Archdemon.

She mumbles a curt reply into the stew, trying to identify its components. She doesn’t remember when she last spoke to someone, but she’s not going to start now. After a while, the innkeeper shrugs and returns to the bar.

The door opens, and a small group of armed men and a dog enter the tavern. She has a quick glance at them – those men stagger and swagger, Templars _march_  – then proceeds to ignore them. Peasants’ sons, she imagines, the levy of some local lord. Sellswords, maybe. There’s a lot of sellswords around these days.

The other mages, however, tense. Their whispered conversation dies down, and their eyes are fearful. One of them reaches for his “walking stick”, but is held back by another. For now. Without bothering to finish her meal, she gets up and steps to the counter. “I’ll be on my way, then,” she quietly says, dropping tuppence on the counter. How much is left of the ten sovereigns she left Kirkwall with? Can’t be much. Enough to get her where she’s headed? She hadn’t decided yet where that was. Maybe she’d stop running when the money was gone.

As she turns to leave, she realises that the sellswords have occupied the table just next to the frightened apostates, seemingly oblivious to their presence. All four mages are now holding on to their staves, poised to jump. She sighs, there are very few things more dangerous or self-destructive than a mage in fear of his life. As she directs her steps towards the exit, she casually walks past the mages’ table. With a flick of her hand, she conjures a small ball of light in her palm that disappears as quickly as it lit up. She regards them for a second, then calmly says: “Don’t.”

When she leaves the inn, the apostates follow her.

 

 

They are from the Circle at Jainen, they say, fled only recently. As she suspected, none of them had ever stepped outside it before. They are young – only the girl has been Harrowed. They follow her because she is from Kirkwall, a city now legendary across Thedas, and because she knows how to survive as an apostate. She lets them follow her because they have money, because they’re so naïve and she’s a teacher, and because that’s what father would have done. One of them has a tattered, well-used copy of Anders’ manifesto, and reads it to the others when they make camp while she sits apart, not saying much and trying to ignore her former friend’s arguments.

They have heard that Arl Teagan of Redcliffe has granted shelter to mages, including the Grand Enchanter, and that’s where they are headed. She has yet to decide whether to follow them there. She wants to stop hiding, stop running, but she fears the consequences her presence at Redcliffe might have.

And yet she follows them, because the others evidently need her help.

They travel south through the Bannorn, avoiding the king’s roads as best they can. The others marvel at the sight of corn fields stretching as far across the plains as the eye can see, but she is familiar with them. Her home, or what remains of it, anyway, lies just south of here, at the crossroads of the Imperial Highway. She does not know what she will find there, but the further south they get, the smaller and sparser the ears of corn on the fields get. Soon, she understands, they will enter the Blightlands, where nothing grows and nothing lives. She has read that not even the tiny beasts that feast on corpses will survive in blighted land, which is the stuff of nightmares.

She tells her travelling companions to turn west before they get there and take ship across Lake Calenhad. They do not understand, point out the risks, but she insists. Lake Calenhad is lined with fishing hamlets, they are bound to find a ferry to Redcliffe somewhere.

After being refused passage in four other places, they find they are not the only mages in the fifth village. The difference being that they have to sneak in under cover of night and ask around the tavern for someone willing to take them across, while the other mage is greeted by the revered mother and lodged in the headman’s house. The woman carries her staff openly, and the golden griffon on her blue-and-white uniform shines in the sunlight. She seems familiar, though she can’t put her finger on it.

One of her charges voices his frustration to the others, proposes talking to their fellow mage. “That’s the Hero of Ferelden, you ass,” says another. “You can’t just go up to her and say ‘hey there, killed any Archdemons lately?’.”

The problem is rendered moot when the Hero approaches them that evening, sneaking away from the feast held in her honour. She calls them ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’, and she has the disturbing suspicion that there’s another avid reader of Anders’ manifesto. The Hero agrees to arrange passage to Redcliffe for them, but she remains on the sidelines, quietly studying her cousin. She is every inch a hero, every inch an officer, every inch a leader. There’s that same flame in her eyes, the mark of unshakeable convictions that makes people want to believe in one. But while the Hero, a mage herself! is feted and praised, and walks around in a splendid uniform, staff in hand, her cousin is persecuted, separated from all she loves, and forced to hide her identity. How is that fair? She has half a mind to reveal herself – but there has been enough death on her behalf. Maybe if the Hero asked for their names – but she doesn’t ask, of course. She knows how these things go. Never seen that woman in my life, m’lord, I swear.

The Warden is not helping them without self-interest, they soon realise, when she directs the fisherman who owns the boat to carry them past Redcliffe to a village called Willensford on the west bank of the lake. The place is close enough to Redcliffe for them, but she has to wonder what the Hero is looking for.

They don’t talk much as the boat ploughs across Lake Calenhad. The fisherman and the Jainen mages are too much in awe of the Hero to speak, and she, who is well-used to heroes and villains, does not know what to speak of. The hero herself sits at the bow of the boat, softly humming to herself and tapping a beat on the wooden railing. She vaguely recognises the tune, seems to remember hearing it in Lothering’s chantry.

Thus, the hours pass. On the horizon, the nature of the shore of Lake Calenhad changes. Golden plains give way to gentle, wooded slopes, then the cliffy hills of the Redcliffe Hinterlands. Castle Redcliffe triumphantly rises out of the water, and the mages are amazed to see the banner of the Circle of Magi fluttering on its towers. Herself, she is not particularly impressed. Her father has always spoken of the Circle as a gilded prison. Even though she was content at her own Circle, considering the circumstances, an _open_ Circle seems a contradiction in terms.

“You look troubled,” the Hero says to her when Redcliffe Castle has disappeared under the horizon once again.

She looks at her cousin, tries to find some measure of kinship. You never hear of the _Hero of Ferelden_ giving up and surrendering. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just … tired.”

“I see,” the Hero says, nodding knowingly, “ _that_ kind of tired.”

She is not sure what to make of that.

“I hear you’re a Kirkwaller?”

“Fereldan. I lived there, though.”

“I’ve had some interesting reports out of Kirkwall,” the Hero says, cryptically. “You did well to get out of the city. Of course, if the Champion could be found …”

She interrupts her. “Don’t.” Don’t go there, she silently begs. There are memories that ought to remain buried. Throw another shovel of earth on ‘em, if they keep stirring.

Warden-Commander Amell grins darkly, and she is put in mind of a particularly smug cat. Thankfully, she says no more, and returns her attention to being ostentatiously bored.

She leans back against the railing, pulls up the hood of her cloak, and tries to sleep.

 

 

They part ways once they have reached the other bank of Lake Calenhad, the Hero travelling further west, into the mountains. Not soon after, she and her throng of mages enter Redcliffe. The town was, by now, firmly in the hand of the rebel mages, normal folk having become a rarity on the streets. She spends the last of her money on a new staff to replace the one she had inherited from her father. After she parts from her young travelling companions, who quickly find fellow mages from Jainen among the rebels, and wanders about the time, she cannot help but be surprised how organised the mages are. When she first heard the news, she imagined desperate fanatics, maybe ruling over the locals with an iron fist.

The truth turns out to be quite different. Both mages and locals suffer from the civil war raging just outside their gates, and few bonds are stronger than those forged by shared suffering. Others did what people do best in catastrophic circumstances, that is, make a profit. The stalls of booksellers, alchemists, staffmakers, tailors, candlemakers, brewers, vintners, jewellers, relic peddlers, bakers, butchers, fishmongers, haberdashers and countless other traders have long burst beyond the confines of the small market square in front of the chantry. The chantry itself still is served, in part by Circle chaplains who have accompanied their flocks into exile, and is fuller than ever at High Mass – the  sole difference being that it is now guarded by mages instead of Templars. The town’s sole tavern, Warden’s Rest, is bursting to the brims. Later, she finds out that the Grand Enchanter and the three or four first enchanters that have found their way to Redcliffe have taken over the fled Arl’s duties and is administering the king’s justice as best she can, solving disputes, and even collecting taxes (to be transferred to Denerim when asked for, on the provision that Denerim never ask).

By chance, she happens to meet an acquaintance who had moved from Kirkwall to Calenhad before the rebellion to study under different masters. As far as she remembers, they never were particularly friendly with each other, but the name of Kirkwall unites them and soon the other mage is acting like they were best friends and offers her a bed for the night, until she can see to her accommodations.

The next morning, she crosses the bridge to the castle and presents herself to two of the first enchanters. The mention of Kirkwall once again raises some eyebrows, but no one presses her on her last name. She is asked for her qualifications, and she cannot help but feel amused by the phrasing. She tries to think of some useful skill, cannot find one that someone else could not fill better, and for lack of a better answer rattles off her magical proficiencies, her occupation at the Circle, and some things her mother taught her.

To her surprise, the first enchanters are impressed – it takes her a moment to realise that most Circle mages specialise in one school or another, and few ever learn practical skills, whereas her talents were moulded by the breadth of her father’s teaching and the need to fit in at home in Lothering.

In the end, it is decided that she will help teach the rebels’ apprentices. After the rebellion, teaching has all but broken down – many of the children in Redcliffe know only the very basics of magic, and few things are as dangerous as an untrained mage child. She has experience with that, and it helps that her grimoire is so varied – every mage, the enchanters believe, ought to at least be familiar with all four schools of magic. There is something else – and here the first enchanters exchange meaningful glances – which she suspects relates to her being one of the few survivors of the Kirkwall rebellion. She is dismissed, with the ominous warning that she will be summoned again.

She enjoys teaching the children, and they soon take to her.

 

 

Well, and now she’s here.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes, final restplace and memorial of Our Lady, still takes her breath away after weeks. The Chant resounds from the walls and echoes in the cavernous nave at every hour, sung by a hundred voices. The scent of incense makes her delirious. It is a small miracle to see mages and Templars, if not working together, at least not fighting any more. She feels, senses, knows: the Maker Himself is present in the Temple’s halls. Even now, the crowds of the faithful flock to behold Our Lady’s ashes and receive His blessing. Grand clerics are amongst them, knight-commanders, first enchanters. She is not, at least not yet: the more time she spends here, the stronger grows her desire to see the ashes and receive solace from her faith, but she knows the legend. Only the worthy may step into the sanctum of sanctums.

Days, weeks, pass in preparations. There is no longer any way of hiding who she is, as she is hauled before one fact-finding committee after another. She knows that other Kirkwall survivors have already relayed their stories to other inquiries, but her last name gives her impressions additional gravity. She does not mention everything, just what they need to know. There are things she would prefer to forget, or so she tells herself. Beyond that, the questions are familiar. No, she does not know where her sister is. No, none of them had been complicit in Anders’ plot (though she realises that her sister _would_ have been, had he let her). No, her answers had not been prompted to her by the Grand Enchanter (as if she doesn’t have more important things to concern herself with). She finds that her fellow mages treat her differently after her identity becomes common knowledge – deference is common. More rarely, they treat her like a noxious vermin or ignore her. She finds the latter more manageable, and considerably more understandable. She had, after all, been complicit in forcing them to run for their lives and had caused more deaths than she could count.

And then, the Divine arrives.

She watches from the back of the crowd as Her Perfection enters the Temple. Her body is old and frail, her face wrinkled, but every word and every motion exuberates youth. Her eyes are vibrant, full of joyous faith in the Maker’s benevolence. She walks with perfect poise, and though she is at least two heads shorter than the knights-divine that escort her, she completely dwarfs them. She is beautiful, in her own way. After spending an hour in devotion at the shrine, Most Holy holds a brief mass before the crowds that are attending the conclave. In her homily, she speaks of forgiveness, and of love.

She listens in awe. She has never heard anything like this, not from a pulpit. She has never been all that religious – not like Sister Leliana, or Sebastian – but even she can see, quite plainly, the Maker speaking through Most Holy’s mouth.

That night, she cannot sleep. Half-buried memories come to the surface once again, tormenting her. It happens. Normally, it ends with her crying into her pillow (or bedroll, or cloak, or the bare ground, as the case may be) as she despairs of her mistakes and her sins. This time, she knows what to do.

She does not know if it’ll work, or even where she has to go, but as if by divine providence her steps that next morning leads her straight to the Divine’s lodgements. She has read of the Orlesian custom of the _levée_ and hopes that Her Perfection practices it. The knights-divine’s reaction when she approaches suggests she doesn’t, but does suggest that the knights-divine do practice morning sparring. Gulping down her fear, she approaches them. “I would like an audience with Most Holy.”

“You and a thousand others,” one of the knights. The voice from inside the helmet is female, she can never tell from the armour. “If you think we’ll let some hedge-mage to Her Perfection …”

She tells them her name.

The knights-divine make her wait for a few minutes, then she is asked inside.

Most Holy is seated at a desk, reading letters. She radiates an air of supreme confidence and faith, albeit her robes would not have looked out of place in Lothering’s chantry. An elderly sister is attending to her and excuses herself when she enters. Most Holy smiles at her visitor, who kneels to kiss her ring. “What can I do for you this early in the morning, my child?”

She swallows hard, tries to find the right phrasing. The Chantry teaches that the Divine’s will is that of Andraste, who in turn speaks in His Voice, and that every Divine is an approximation of Our Lady. How do you deal with standing – rather, kneeling – before the single-most perfect living human in Thedas? By stuttering, evidently. “I … my name is … uh, I’d …”

“Calm yourself, child. Take a deep breath.”

She does as told, and to her surprise finds herself at peace. Her poise straightens, her heart’s furious drumming slows down to a measured beat. “I … thank you,” she begins, still halting. In your homily yesterday … you said that there was no sin so great that the Maker would not forgive those who show … true repentance.”

The Divine hears the question that she does not dare voice. “There are no limits to the Maker’s love for His children. ‘All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand / beloved and precious to Him.’ No matter how many times we betray and disappoint Him, He has never truly abandoned us. That, child, is what He gave you taught us how to tell right from wrong, and why He has given us the gift of reflection upon our choices: no matter how great your sins, your Maker gives you another chance. You need only ask.” Most Holy takes her hands. “Tell me, child. What troubles you that you seek the Maker’s forgiveness?”

The question breaks loose a deluge of tears and sins. Once she opens her mouth, there is no stopping it as she lists the sins that keep her awake at night. One after another, her darkest secrets spill forth, the list growing as she recounts it. Before this day, she was not sure if she sought _forgiveness,_ but now her doubts and regrets are changed into repentance. All she wants is for the memories to leave her … no, not the memories. The loathing, the grim despair, the alienation she feels when she looks at herself in the mirror.

How much time passes? She does not know, and will never learn. She starts in Kirkwall, where it all had started. Forgive her, oh Maker, for she has sinned: endless faceless, nameless murders tumble from her lips, the flimsy justifications her sister had made not holding under her scrutiny. She recounts little acts of subversiveness against the Templars and the Chantry, and large ones, culminating in the week she spent protecting her sister’s pet abomination as they fled Kirkwall. And finally, in a voice choked and gagged by sobbing, she recounts to Her Perfection the long litany of stolen kisses, whispered vows and forbidden moans that she cannot erase from her mind, and maybe does not want to. What was between them after father’s death – and, she confesses to herself and to Most Holy, still would be if she had not one morning awoken alone in an empty bed – terrifies her. She hates her own weakness, and that she let it happen so readily – but she also cannot help but miss her, cannot help but recall half-buried memories of passion and comfort

All this she tells the Divine.

Lightness takes her as she closes, and she can breathe again. It feels good to finally tell someone. Now, it is out of her hands, and she awaits Her Perfection’s judgement. She has played out this scene in her head through many sleepless nights, though never with Most Holy herself sitting before her. Nonetheless, she knows what will come now. The Divine sounded as though she truly believes in what she said – but the Maker _has_ turned away from His children, and when it comes down to it, her sins are at least as reprehensible as Maferath’s.

But the Divine reaches out to dry her cheeks with an embroidered silk handkerchief and lays a frail hand on her shoulder. She smiles at her. “You may hate yourself all you want, child,” she says. “But the Maker loves you, and He sees your pain, and your regret. He offers you forgiveness, complete and unconditional, if you but accept it.”

Her reddened eyes widen. She is not sure she understands. “But … what I told you …”

“There is no sin that the Maker does not forgive you for, my child. The only one you are hurting is yourself. The real question is not if the Maker can forgive you. It is whether you can forgive yourself.”

For a long time, she stares at the floor beneath her knees. Finally she nods. “Thank you, Your Perfection. I think I understand. I … thank you. I shan’t trouble you any longer.”

The Divine raises a hand. “Go and refresh yourself, child. But come back here in an hour, if you please. I would like to take you with me to the first day of the negotiations today.” There is a pause. “It will take your mind off things.”

She rises to her feet and bows, deeply. “I will, Your Perfection. Thank you.” She leaves the room. Her steps are considerably lighter now, and by the time she passes the group of Wardens in the corridor, she is positively skipping.

 

 

If she rests her weight on her ankles and twists her shackled wrists a certain way, she finds the pain almost drowns out that from her palm. Magic is roaring inside her; between unbridled mana and the furious pulse of the little piece of Fade in her hand, she can hardly form a straight thought. She tries to sit – or kneel – upright, an earlier, delirious attempt to stretch having resulted in a sword at her throat and a sharp kick in the ribs.

She didn’t know they have swords in the Void.

A light appears before her, and she wonders if the men will hurt her if she tries to walk towards it. She soon corrects her thought, if the men won’t, the women before her certainly will. One of them seems familiar, but her mind is too addled by pain to make the connection.

Sharp steps around her. Hot breath by her ear. A scathing voice in a heavy Nevarran accent.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now, Bethany Hawke …”

**Author's Note:**

> Very quick sketch based on my ongoing infatuation with Bethany (and, to a lesser degree, FemHawke / Bethany with both partners being on fairly ridiculous guilt trips about it). Expect more in that vein some time this, er, year. Definitely this Age.
> 
> I realise that sin and confession aren't particularly major concepts of Andrastian theology from what we can see. Confession almost certainly isn't, since the Maker's facing away from you with His fingers in His ears going "lalala I can't hear you praying to Me". Still, Justinia is the kind of theologian who'd probably drag the Maker back kicking and screaming and MAKE Him care (that was a pune, or play on words). After all, she does support Leliana's loony ramblings. Sorta. And then there's Threnodies 12:4, where Andraste does say in quite uncertain terms that the reason the Maker turned away in the first place is that He loves his children (however THAT's supposed to work).


End file.
